


Braided

by queensmooting



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Book 2: A Clash of Kings, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 18:28:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18744640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensmooting/pseuds/queensmooting
Summary: Sansa couldn’t forget she’d escaped her marriage prospects only to hand them off to another.





	Braided

**Author's Note:**

> for @xenodouglas aka homovikings here on ay oh three!!

Sansa breaks fast with Margaery’s ladies most mornings now. She hardly slept the night before and the chatter of the younger Tyrell cousins gnaws at her nerves. Still, anything is better than Cersei calculating her every bite.

 

She eats in silence, poking at her quail egg, until she startles at a hand on her shoulder.

 

“Oh Sansa,” Margaery whispers. “What is this?”

 

She eases the collar of Sansa’s dress aside, stopping when Sansa flinches, when the bruises flare.

 

“Nothing,” Sansa mutters, avoiding her eyes. She’s thankful the other girls are too absorbed in their gossip to notice.

 

Margaery is slow to lower her hand. “If you’d like I can have our maester--”

 

“ _ No _ .” Then, gentler: “No, Lady Margaery. Truly it is nothing.”

 

It was the truth of it. The blows she took before Joffrey’s throne were nothing compared to the love-born surge of pride she felt knowing his rage meant Robb achieved another victory. Her brother wasn’t the only Stark bleeding for the north.

 

Every day brought her closer to rescue. To home.

 

“If you say so.” Margaery returns to her breakfast. “Walk with me after?”

 

When Margaery dismisses her ladies she takes Sansa’s arm with exceeding tenderness, mindful of her sore body. Sansa wonders if she’ll ever re-accustom herself to kindness. If a day will come when a loving touch won’t bring tears to her eyes.

 

At first she thinks they’re heading for the gardens, where she spends much of her days with the Tyrell ladies. Instead they take a turn east, to a lengthy walkway overlooking the Blackwater.

 

Here Margaery stops, taking Sansa’s hands. The soft brown of her hair glows near-auburn in the sunlight.

 

“Take a long look, Lady Sansa. Before long your new view will be the yellow rose fields of Highgarden.”

 

_ Highgarden _ . The child she was might have dreamed of such a fancy. A kind husband, a beautiful castle, a warm climate. If she couldn’t have Winterfell, she could have Willas.

 

“Sansa? Are you alright?”

 

_ Could it be home without a wolfswood, without the laughter of little brothers? _

 

“Yes, I’m alright.”

 

Margaery’s mouth twists, her eyes shrewd. “Sit.”

 

She leads Sansa to a settee bench overlooking the water. Sansa eases down, breathing through the storm of her thoughts. For now she was safe with Margaery, no matter what the coming days would bring.

 

“What on earth do Cersei’s women do to your hair?” Margaery laughs, fluffing at the coiled cloud atop Sansa’s head. “Such a pretty girl doesn’t need all of this.”

 

“Oh...I--”

 

“See?” Margaery lays a hand upon her cheek. “You even blush pretty. Me, I just look like a tomato.”

 

Sansa smiles for the first time in days. Her tension eases under Margaery’s hands.

 

“Do you mind?”

 

“Not at all,” Sansa says, not quite sure what she’s agreeing to.

 

Margaery takes the clips from Sansa’s hair, then shakes it loose. With her fingers she detangles the new mess, starting from the bottom, careful and practiced. Sansa melts under the touch. Her maids in the capital were rough and businesslike with her hair, sometimes forgetting there was a head attached.

 

Margaery was different. In so many ways Margaery was different.

 

“How did your ladies do your hair in the north?” Margaery asks.

 

“They didn’t. My mother always brushed my hair.” Her throat tightens. “She always took care of me, even when she didn’t have to.”

 

“Lady Stark sounds like an extraordinary woman.”

 

Another surge of pride. “She is.”

 

Margaery traces her nails over Sansa’s scalp, separating her hair for a plait. Sansa’s spine shivers pleasantly.

 

“Back in Highgarden I had someone to do this for me, too.”

 

“Your mother?”

 

“Loras, mostly.”

 

They both laugh, and from there conversation flows easy between them. When Margaery speaks Sansa closes her eyes, focuses on every sweep of Margaery’s fingers, the soft roll of bay waves below. She breathes deep of floral air and wonders if Highgarden would smell like this.

 

“There,” Margaery says, the gentle breaking of a spell. “Just one more thing.”

 

From the corner of her eye Sansa watches Margaery pick a red blossom from the pots beside them. She tucks the flower into the tie of Sansa’s plait, then runs her hand over it a final time. Already Sansa misses the touch.

 

“Have a look.”

 

Margaery brings a pair of hand mirrors from the pocket of her dress, holds one so Sansa can use the other to see her plait.

 

“It’s beautiful.” Sansa returns the mirror and stands. “Thank you.”

 

“It was my pleasure, Sansa.” Her smile is warm as the morning. “I should return. The king must be wondering where I am.”

 

At the mention of Joffrey a shadow dims Margaery’s smile. Sansa’s gut sinks. She couldn’t forget she’d escaped her marriage prospects only to hand them off to another.

 

“Of course.”

 

They go inside, where castle walls bury the sunlight. Sansa steals glimpses of Margaery’s face as they walk. Her head is high, eyes alight, but Sansa wonders.

 

All her life she’d imagined some knight sweeping her away in a daring rescue. Margaery, it seemed, was in need a knight of her own.

 

_ When my brother comes for me I’ll take you with us, Lady Margaery. You saved me.  _ Sansa’s heart swells with resolve. _ I can save you, too. _


End file.
